


Time and Care

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Caretaking, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 19:42:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12372696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: Prompto drags himself to his feet and stumbles for the tent door. He's just in time to see Ignis accepting a tissue and dabbing at his nose."Look who's awake," says Gladio, with a hint of a smile. He looks like he could use a whole day of sleep, himself; there are bags under his eyes, and his nose is red and raw, and that? That's just weird. Prompto's known him three years now, and he's never seen Gladio looking anything other than 100% ready to take on the world."Man," Prompto tries to say. "You look about as good as I feel." Only when he starts talking, nothing comes out. It's this raspy, breathy little noise, and that's about it."Ah," says Ignis, as though this explains everything.





	Time and Care

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alcyonenight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcyonenight/gifts).



> This was my first exchange fic ever. I hope the recipient enjoys it... I tried my best! <3
> 
> I went mostly with prompt one but snuck a few elements from prompt two in there to try and give you more of what you wanted. I hope you enjoy. Happy fic exchange!! <3

The first hint that something's wrong is Gladio sneezing.

Gladio sneezes all the time, though. He's allergic to the tiny white flowers that used to grow in the Citadel gardens, and the long, dry grass down by Cape Caem, and regular, everyday household cats. So Gladio sneezes, and Noct figures something unfortunate just came into bloom. He makes a mental note that they ought to pick up another bottle of allergy meds next time they swing by a gas station, because he's got to be almost out by now.

Then he stops thinking about it, because there's a shadow on the ground in front of them that's shaped suspiciously like a Niff drop ship, and the drone of engines are heavy in the air, and suddenly they all have more important things to worry about.

The second hint that something's wrong is Prompto falling asleep in the car.

Prompto never sleeps in the car. He's always too wired. He fidgets with his boots, or changes the radio station every few minutes, or hangs too far out the side to take pictures of the world as it rushes by. He can't for the life of him just sit still, to say nothing of actually settling down enough to nap. So when Noct notices a baby anak trailing the herd coming up on their left, he says, "Hey, Prom, check that out," expecting he'll be awake to hear it.

He's not. When Noct looks, he finds that Prompto's sprawled out on the seat, mouth slightly open, sleeping the sleep of the truly exhausted. Noct just snaps a shot of the anak on his phone to show him later, chalks it up to a too-late night grinding in King's Knight, and immediately forgets about it.

The third hint that something's wrong is Ignis' face.

By the time they pull over at Alstor Slough for the night to set up camp, he's bright red. For a second, Noct mistakes it for sunburn – blinks at him, and stares, and does a double-take, because Ignis always wears sunscreen. He can't remember the last time Iggy actually burned.

But no: the red's all in his cheeks, and it's kind of blotchy, and his eyes are too bright.

Gladio's sneezing again, too: not once or twice, but a whole string of them, one after the next. Come to think of it, he hasn't let up since about midday.

Prompto has to be half-dragged out of the passenger seat, groggy and disoriented, and he slouches toward the campground, not even the thought of getting a shot of a catoblepas enough to excite him.

By the time they get camp set up, Noct knows for sure: they're probably going to be staying here awhile.

 

* * *

 

The morning comes, and it brings a beautiful sunrise, the soothing low of the catoblepas on the lake, and the thought that that his own lungs are trying to drown him.

Prompto groans, still buried in the depths of his sleeping bag. Everything aches, and every time he breathes in, there's an unfortunate wheezing noise. He wonders vaguely what Astral he managed to piss off yesterday – sticks his hand out to feel around for Gladio's duffel bag.

There's got to be tissues in there, he's sure. The big guy's got some killer allergies.

He finds it eventually, through determined groping – unzips it blind, while he's still mostly swaddled in cloth. Then he disappears an entire pack of tissue into his sleeping bag and blows his nose until it feels like he can breathe again.

Iggy's got a trash bag he makes them pull into the tent, and Prompto spends awhile groping for that, too. In go the tissues, and afterward he thinks seriously about going back to sleep. It feels like he's run a marathon every day for the past week and a half, and his body's kicking his ass to get some payback.

He's just on the edge of drifting off again when the peace of the morning's broken by quiet conversation.

One of the voices sounds like Noct, and that's what kicks him into gear. If he's outslept the Prince of Dreamland, it's officially time to get up and face the day.

So Prompto shoves himself up to sitting and blinks at the walls of the tent for a while.

He can hear words, now, coming from outside: Ignis, prim and patient, like he's lecturing a kid. "It would be in everyone's best interests to press on, is all I mean to say. We have obligations, after all."

"Our obligations," says Noct, plainly disbelieving, "are catching frogs."

"All the same." Ignis pauses – clears his throat. Clears it again, slightly louder. "Miss Yeager is a renowned biologist. Her work may well be time-sensitive." A pause. "Gladio, if you'd be so kind as to share your tissues?"

Prompto drags himself to his feet and stumbles for the tent door. He's just in time to see Ignis accepting a tissue and dabbing at his nose.

"Look who's awake," says Gladio, with a hint of a smile. He looks like he could use a whole day of sleep, himself; there are bags under his eyes, and his nose is red and raw, and that? That's just weird. Prompto's known him three years now, and he's never seen Gladio looking anything other than 100% ready to take on the world.

"Man," Prompto tries to say. "You look about as good as I feel."

Only, when he starts talking, nothing comes out. It's this raspy, breathy little noise, and that's about it.

"Ah," says Ignis, as though this explains everything.

Noct fixes Prompto with flat kind of look. He just holds it for a second, and then he says, "Okay, guys. Royal decree. We're staying here another day."

Ignis opens his mouth to protest, but Noct barrels on before he can even get started. "If Sania's frogs are a priority, I can go catch them myself."

Prompto tries to say, "Dude, I'm fine." His mouth forms the words, and the air comes out, but there's just no voice behind them. 

Gladio, not surprisingly, ignores him. "Better not run off on your own," he says. "The frogs'll keep till we're better. Besides, whatever we've got, chances are you'll end up with it, too."

Ignis purses his lips, brow drawing down. "Perhaps some sort of quarantine might be in order," he says, thoughtfully.

"In a tent?" says Prompto, with all the force he can muster, but it comes out as a dry sort of croak. A quarantine seems kind of beside the point, when just yesterday they were all over each other. How many thousands of germs does a kiss trade, again? He remembers hearing that it's something ridiculous.

Noct must have the same idea. "I've literally had my tongue in every one of you guys' mouths in the past 24 hours. Pretty sure hanging up a blanket in the middle of the tent to try and keep the germs out is a lost cause."

"Not precisely what I had in mind," says Ignis, a touch stiffly, but Prompto's known him long enough to pick up on the hint of fondness behind the exasperation.  

He doesn't bring up the frogs again, either – and that? That means they're getting the rest of the day off. One point for Noct.

 

* * *

 

By four in the afternoon, Ignis is fairly certain that he's running a fever.

His knees always ache, when his temperature is too high; besides which, when he presses the back of his hand against his cheek, the cool touch of his own fingers is strangely soothing.

Prompto's retreated into the tent, a silent lump in his sleeping bag. Gladio is stretched out in his chair, a magazine in one hand and a tissue in the other. He's rubbing at his nose again, plainly still miserable.

And Noct, thank goodness, seems perfectly fine. Noct is seated crossed-legged on the glowing runes of the haven, tapping at his phone in what's likely a rousing game of King's Knight.

Whatever else the Astrals seem to have set upon them, he takes heart in the fact that the prince, at least, is hale and hearty.

Ignis intends to keep it that way.

To that end, he'll need to keep Noct's strength up. He's been thinking off and on about a chicatrice noodle soup for most of the afternoon. It's healthy, fortifying, and it ought to be soothing for Prompto, as well. The boy's left the sneezing stage behind and gone straight into a sore throat and sleeping bag-muffled coughs. Doubtless, a preview of what he and Gladio can expect tomorrow.

They've no noodles to speak of, but there is a fair amount of leftover rice. Ignis slips a notebook out of his pocket and jots down ingredients: chicatrice leg, rice, carrots, celery. Salt, pepper, sage.

Ignis muses idly over the blank lines and attempts to concentrate past the swimming sense of disorientation a fever always brings. He's certain he's missing something important, something that would tip it from a good recipe to a great one, but however long he stares, no idea comes.

It will have to serve. He can always make changes later.

Dinner planned, he makes his way to the cook station and sets his implements out with typical precision. He's scrubbed the carrots clean and is just starting on the celery when Noct's voice comes, flat and a touch disbelieving: "The hell're you doing?"

Ignis fixes him with a cool look. "Preparing dinner."

"Not tonight, you're not," Noct tells him. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and makes for the cook station, stepping right up to pull the celery from between Ignis' fingers.

"Oh, honestly, Noct," says Ignis, with a touch of exasperation.

"Think of it like a cooking lesson," says Noct. "Aren't you always the one who's trying to get me to help with breakfast?"

He looks at Noct's face then: truly looks.

His Highness has perfected a certain façade for the public. It's bland and disinterested, the sort of blatant disregard a teenager might deem cool. He's wearing it now, but it's a thin veneer. Ignis can see the cracks in the walls across the surface; he can read, in the manner that Noct's eyes meet his and then skitter away, that this offer comes from a place of affection.

A warmth spreads through him that has nothing to do with the heat of the fever.

"I suppose I can talk you through it," Ignis accedes, and he relinquishes the celery.

 

* * *

 

By morning, thank gods, Gladio's stopped sneezing so damn much.

It's about time. He went through close to three packs of tissues yesterday, all by himself, and that's not counting Iggy and Prompto.

They're kind of scraping the bottom of the tissue barrel here. He packed for his own allergies, not a sudden onset of plague, and when the sniffles finally give way to the throaty, ugly coughs that've been shaking Prompto all night, Gladio's ready to welcome the change with open arms.

He figures he's doing better than the other two, still. 

Iggy and Prompto are both burning up, laid out flat in the tent, and Prom still can't talk. It'd almost be funny, watching him charades his way through trying to explain what he wants, only it's pretty obvious how much his throat's killing him. Poor kid can hardly swallow without wincing.

Gladio figures he's doing okay, by comparison.

He's still on his feet. He's still mostly functional. His lungs aren't doing that ugly wheezing thing every time he takes a breath in.

So when noon rolls around and he spots movement on the swampy ground of the slough, he figures it's down to him.

He lifts one hand to shield his eyes from the sun's glare – counts seven voreteeth, noses to the ground, trotting along straight toward the haven. "Damn," he says. "Guess the peace and quiet couldn't last."

Gladio holds his hand out – waits for the familiar electric thrill of the magic to drop the weight of his sword into his palm. Then he turns toward the creatures coming on at a steady lope, fangs bared and heads lowered.

"Twenty gil says I'll take out more than you," says Gladio. "How bout it, princess?"

Noct snorts. "You really in any shape to make bets?"

It'd be insulting, if it wasn't for the tone. There's concern there, under the too-cool-to-care delivery.

Still, like hell Gladio's going to let some dumb cold bring him down. "I'm not laid out in the tent, am I?"

When no reply comes, he glances over to find that Noct's watching him, lips pursed, like he's trying to decide what to say. In the end, he doesn't say anything at all.

There's a strange waver in the air, like from a heat mirage. Blue shards of magic glimmer and blur, and suddenly Noct's gone, leaving behind nothing but an afterimage.

By the time Gladio jogs across the plain to join him, the voreteeth are laid out like a hurricane stormed through, and Noct's banishing the engine blade into thin air.

"Show off," says Gladio. There's something like pride stirring in his chest at the sight of Noct standing there, lanky and confident, among the remnants of a fight he took on without even breaking a sweat. Pride – or maybe it's just that tickling sensation down deep in his lungs that means he's about to start hacking again.

Sure enough, a second later Gladio's coughing – a single, barking spasm that turns into a whole volley. It was the jog, he's sure. Took the air right out of him. He wipes his mouth, twice, and spits on the dusty ground.

"Anyway," says Noct, way too casual. "This is just about wrapped up. How bout we head back to camp?"

"You turning into a mother hen in your old age?"

"Just thinking I'm not gonna get very far without my Shield," says Noct, staring at a point somewhere near the horizon. "So it'd probably help if he didn't come down with pneumonia and drop dead or something dumb like that."

Gladio can feel the smile pulling at his lips, even as he gives his head a disbelieving shake. "You're a real brat," he says. "You know that?"

But when Noct starts out toward the haven, he falls in behind.

 

* * *

 

It's a rough night.

Prompto sounds like he's going to hack a lung straight out of his body, and his sleeping bag's right by Noct's. Every time he starts to drift off, a whole new wave of coughing thunders in to wake him up again.

It's got to be past 2 am.

Prompto's got to be as tired as he is.

"Hey," says Noct. He reaches a hand over and pulls down the zipper on Prompto's sleeping nag. "Rise and shine."

Prompto's wide awake, staring at him with glassy eyes. There are tear tracks down his cheeks, probably from that last round, when he was choking so hard he started to retch.

"C'mon, Prom," says Noct. "Seriously, lying down flat's not helping you. Let's sit you up for a bit."

Prompto's lips move, but no sound comes. He grimaces – nods – sits up reluctantly.

"Lemme make sure we won't freeze to death," says Noct, and lets himself out of the tent.

The campfire's died down a bit; it flickers as it laps at the remaining wood, but when Noct feeds it another couple of logs, it perks up quick enough. He circles around to the cook station – pokes through Iggy's stuff until he finds a box of herbal tea.

When he turns back around, Prompto's standing in the entryway to the tent, swaying slightly, spare blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

"Man, Prom," says Noct. "You look _bad_."

He does look bad. His face is deathly pale, except for the cheeks – those are flushed with fever. The bags under his eyes are dark, and his hair is an absolute rat's nest, rumpled and untended. He looks like it's a miracle he's on his feet at all.

"Here," says Noct. "Sit down."

He pulls Prompto's usual chair out for him – watches as his best friend slides into it like his legs hadn't planned on holding him up much longer.

Prompto's lips move again; there's no sound behind the motion, but Noct can make out the shape: "Thanks."

"No problem," says Noct, and turns toward the tea kettle.

He's never the one to make the tea. Hell, they usually don't _have_ tea. It's all coffee all the time, most days, except for the very, very rare occasions when Ignis needs to unwind without the caffeine.

Still, how hard can it be? Boil the water, stick a tea bag in it. 

Some people do honey, right? Isn't that supposed to be good for a sore throat?

He sticks the tea bag in a cup, and he digs out a jar of honey and adds a spoonful. Then there's nothing to do but wait for the water to heat.

It's weird, how quiet everything is. Being around a Prompto who can't talk just seems wrong. They've been best friends for five years now, and every memory he has of the two of them is full of idle chatter. 

Prom's always willing to talk about something. Back in Insomnia, it used to be the new up-and-coming b-grade zombie movie, or the game that got taken out of the arcade, or the cute dog he saw walking home from work. Now that they're on the road, he'll talk about how bad Gladio's taste in radio stations is, or what Specs is going to make for dinner, or the lighting in that shot he took of the dread behemoth.

He never seems to run out of topics. It's kind of impressive. 

Only now, here he is, sitting in his chair like a wilted fern, perfectly silent aside from the occasional wheezing breath and periodic outbursts of coughing.

He's doing better than he was lying down flat, though. That's something, anyway.

The water starts to roll and bubble, finally, and Noct hurries to pick it back up. He sloshes some into the cup with the teabag and brings it over to Prompto. He's not sure what's in there, but it's got kind of a sharp smell to it. Ginger, maybe?

"Here you go," he says, and hands Prompto the cup.

Prompto takes it with shaking hands – presses his palms against it, like he's cold.

Noct frowns down at him, huddled in a blanket in his camp chair. His feet are bare – Prom never sleeps with socks on – and they're pressed up against the cold stone of the haven.

"Hey," says Noct. "You trying to make yourself sicker or something?"

He glances around – seizes Gladio's chair and drags it over.

"Okay," says Noct. "Feet up."

Prompto gives him an incredulous sort of look, so Noct just grabs him by the ankles and hauls them up himself, so that they're elevated and right by the fire. He circles around and unwraps the blanket from Prom's shoulders – covers the full length of him, instead, and tucks it in under his feet.

When he looks down, Prompto has this look on his face. It's kind of dazed, and that part, Noct figures, is the fever. But it's also unbearably, earnestly grateful, and the smile on his lips is kind of shaky.

"What?" says Noct, suddenly self-conscious. 

Prompto mouths something Noct doesn't catch, and shakes his head, but the smile's still there, soft and careful.

So Noct comes to sit beside him, in his own chair, and he reaches out to take Prompto's hand.

 

* * *

 

It's morning.

Or maybe afternoon.

There are birds singing, and the sunlight's warm on his face. That seems a little off, somehow. There seems like there should be a roof or a tent or something, keeping that from happening.

When Prompto opens his eyes, it takes a minute to figure out where he is – a minute more to remember how he got here.

The previous night trickles back to him sluggishly: coughing himself ragged, and a cup of tea he couldn't drink because his throat feels like someone took a sheet of sandpaper to it. He remembers Noct, tucking him in like a kid – like no one's done since he was maybe six years old, and his parents weren't away on business all the time.

He remembers Noct's fingers, laced through his own. He remembers looking over to see that Noct had fallen asleep, lost to the world.

The camp looks different from that memory. For one thing, the fire's gone out. For another, someone's taken the tent down, and Noct's fighting with Gladio over who's going to bring it to the car.

"Look," Noct says. "You're always bitching about how I skip arm day, right? Think of this as arm day."

"Arm day was yesterday," says Gladio, gruffly.

More than gruffly. His voice sounds like someone's dragged it over twenty miles of graveled road. It's deeper than usual, with harder edges.

It's kind of sexy.

"What's up with your voice, big guy?" Prompto asks. He tries to ask, anyway. All he gets is grinding pain in his throat, and a wheeze of air.

He flops back in the chair, defeated. Figures that the same bug that steals his voice turns Gladio into a sex god. 

"Awake?" says Ignis, somewhere behind him. A wet washcloth appears in front of his face, as though by magic; Ignis fingers, steady and slender, hold it aloft. "Wash up a bit, if you need to. We'll be on our way, shortly."

Prompto takes the washcloth and scrubs the crust out of the corners of his eyes. Then he pries himself up out of the chair and makes his ginger way toward the edge of camp to take care of business. By the time he gets back, the argument's over. 

Noct's got his arms wrapped around the tent, kind of smirking, and Gladio's scowling at the world like it's done him a huge injustice.

Two points for Noct.

 

* * *

 

It's always something of an exercise in restraint, when Noct drives.

Generally, Ignis sits bolt upright, watching the road and its hazards, wishing his fingers were on the wheel. He finds that the loss of control unsettles him. He finds that he doesn't much enjoy being in someone else's care.

Today, however, he sits in the back seat. 

He reminds Noct to adjust the mirrors, because he tends to forget.

Then Ignis tips his head back, just for a moment, to rest his eyes.

When he wakes, the sun has shifted. It's lower to the horizon, a bright glare over uneven rooftops.

There's an oppressive heat in the air, and the engine has slowed to the purr that indicates Noct has eased off the gas. A moment later, the Regalia lurches to a stop, and there's a telltale click as Noct sets the parking break.

"Everyone out," says Noct. "End of the line."

Ignis removes his glasses, carefully. He wipes at his eyes until they're clear and he feels marginally more awake. Then he replaces his glasses and blinks out at the twisting streets and lively populace of Lestallum. 

"Dare I ask how we managed to arrive before nightfall?" says Ignis, dismayed to find that his voice has grown scratchy and hoarse.

"I pushed the speed limit a little," says Noct, climbing out of the driver's seat and pocketing the keys, ignoring the disapproving look Ignis shoots his way. "You guys coming, or what?"

Gladio seems more than ready; he's halfway out of the car before Noct's finished speaking, although his face, too, is now flushed with fever. Prompto seems decidedly less enthusiastic, slumped against the passenger side door and looking for all the world as though he's attempting to burrow into the folded crook of his own elbow. He slides from the car reluctantly – stands swaying there beside the Regalia until Noct slips arm around him and turns him toward the hotel.

"C'mon," says Noct. "We better get moving. Sooner we check in at the Leville, the sooner you guys can take a shower and hop in bed."

That does sound rather appealing, now that it comes down to it.

Ignis has never been one to run cold or hot; he's never especially been troubled by extremes of temperature, at all. He can wear a button-up in the desert with a fair amount of comfort. But last night, for the first time he can remember, he woke in the early morning hours shaking with the cold and couldn't convince himself to drift back off to sleep.

A shower sounds heavenly. An actual bed with blankets sounds sublime.

Still. It's their first stop in a sizeable city for several weeks, now. They need to put gas in the car and restock on curatives. And since they're in the area, they may as well see what hunts are available; their funds could use bolstering.

His mental do-do list is eleven items long before he realizes that Noct's already begun to walk toward the hotel.

And perhaps Gladio knows him too well, because he reaches out to nudge Ignis in the side. "Whatever it is," Gladio says, "it can wait."

Gladio falls in behind the others, and Ignis stands for a moment, looking after them.

He adjusts his glasses, and he arranges the mental list into two columns: "pressing" and "acceptable to postpone."

It's remarkable, he thinks, how many items he can shift to the second column when he has the proper motivation.

 

* * *

 

Gladio's always been a camping kind of guy.

When he was a kid, he wasn't a big fan of the fancy dinners and too-long ceremonies that came with his family's status. He hated standing for the tailor – and later, when the new clothes came in, putting them on was even worse. There was always someone to tie his tie, or do his hair, or make sure his shoes were shined.

He'll always be grateful to his father for that day when he walked in on Gladio, all of eleven years old, trying to duck out of the hands of the maid primping him for the evening's banquet. He'll always remember that crooked smile, and the off-handed suggestion that maybe it was time for Gladio to start his survival training.

The next day, Gladio'd gone off into the woods with Cor Leonis to learn how to hunt, and track, and start a fire. His father hadn't come – his place was with the king, after all – but Gladio'd gotten out of a week's worth of fancy events he'd rather have gouged his own eyes out than sit through.

He'd come back dirty, one boot untied, a tent slung over one shoulder. And he'd known already: camping was for him.

Since that day, he can count the number of camping trips he's turned down on one hand. He can count the number of times he's been happy about it on two fingers.

But this? This makes three.

Gladio doesn't think he's ever been so excited for an honest-to-gods shower in his life. There's something about hot water, when you're sick – makes you feel better, no matter what's dragging you under.

And he does feel better, at least a little. There's something to be said for stretching out with a book while Iggy and Prompto are sacked out in the next bed over. Noct's MIA – begged off to go buy some medicine and something for them for lunch – and the peace and quiet's nice, too.

Gladio's enjoying it so much he closes his eyes to soak it in a minute.

He must drift off for a while.

When he opens them, it's to the sound of the key in the hotel door. The light streaming in through the window's shifted, and there's Noct, standing in the doorway, arms wrapped around a paper bag.

He's looking harried and kind of disheveled – manhandles the bag onto the side table and kicks the door closed.

"Hey," he says, and then frowns over at Gladio. "Thought you were supposed to be getting some sleep. You been up this whole time?"

Gladio picks up his book from where it had fallen onto his chest. "Yeah," he says. "Good book. You need help with anything?"

"I got it," says Noct, and it looks like he actually does.

He wrestles the cap off of first one bottle and then another – shakes a couple of pills into his hand. He pours some water into a cup and circles around to the bed, then hands the medicine over.

"You wanna eat?" says Noct, after Gladio's swallowed them. "I got takeout. Probably better while it's hot."

Turns out it's damn good while it's hot.

Gladio's got no idea where he managed to find something that's not up to Lestallum's usual standards of spiciness, but here it is: creamy soup in blank white takeout cups and some kind of crunchy bread on the side. The soup feels good on his throat, going down.

"You oughtta get some rest," says Noct, when he's done, and takes the cup from him.

"You oughtta mind your own business," says Gladio, and rolls his eyes.

But he puts the book back on the bedside table – lost his place when he dropped it earlier, anyway – and stretches out like he does at night. It's too early to go to bed, but a nap doesn't sound so bad.

 

* * *

 

Noct sets them up in Lestallum for the next two days.

The guys all sleep a lot. Noct wakes them every now and then to ply them with soup and a new dose of pills. When they're up, Gladio reads and Ignis catches up on his mending. Prompto plays King's Knight until he falls asleep midway and gets his whole party killed.

But mostly – mostly, they sleep. Like, eighteen hours a day sleep.

It's kind of weird, all this quiet. No Gladio complaining about shacking up in a fancy hotel, bleeding their funds away. No Ignis briefing him in the morning about what the day's schedule will bring. No Prompto chattering on about whatever happens to cross his mind.

Even when Prompto's awake he's quiet, voice still nothing but a rasp of a whisper, and that's the weirdest part of all.

But their fevers are down, and that's got to be worth something, right? They're moving in the right direction.

Now if only they could shake those coughs, they'd be in pretty good shape.

 

* * *

 

It's morning, and for the first time since the Astrals staged their war, back in the dawn of time, Prompto doesn't feel like he's been run over by a truck.

He blinks his eyes open – scrubs the sleep out of the corners of them and yawns.

His hand paws at his own forehead – and he brightens, considerably, when it's cool to the touch. He almost feels human. It's kind of amazing.

"Good morning," says Ignis, smoothly. He's sitting in the chair by the window, drinking a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper. He looks unfairly put-together, as though the past four days haven't fazed him at all. "You're looking better this morning."

Gladio's sitting in the chair across from him, picking at what looks like a fried egg sandwich. His nose is a little red, but other than that, you wouldn't know he's been sick. "Guess we can cancel that coffin order," he says. "How you feeling?"

"Way better," Prompto tries to say.

He's expecting it to come out a creaky whisper, like it has for the past four days. But no – he actually _says_ it, and the words are actually audible, and he brightens even further.

"Make that way, way better," says Prompto.

He turns to where Noct's still sacked out in the bed next to him – pokes him in the ribs, playfully. "Wakey wakey, dude. Good news!"

Totally three points for Noct. Hail the conquering hero, who beat back the plague.

But Noct doesn't answer. He just groans like he's dying, and pulls the pillow up over his head.

It takes him just long enough for Prompto to catch sight of his face before he's got it figured out: ghost white, with little splotches of color in the cheeks, like someone slapped him.

Prompto frowns down at him for a second – worms his hand in between the pillow and Noct's forehead and grimaces at the heat baking off the skin.

"Hey, guys?" he says. "Think we're gonna need the room another couple of days."


End file.
